The panicked whispers outside the orphanage never reached the second floor, and the sudden collective death had nothing whatsoever to do with the occult.
After Hastur spotted the red “intruder” markers on the game map, he methodically rerouted the freshly laid electrical wires and plumbing. Dirty water and electric sparks quickly turned that wave of red names to gray.
He waved his jubilant little yellow wavy lines and, in one go, rebuilt the reclaimed land. Five minutes later, he stopped, satisfied but not entirely so.
~~~
All buildable areas had been fully developed!
Was that it?
Couldn’t he touch the desert to the south of the orphanage? What about the Black Sea to the north?
~~~
Oh. No money. Couldn’t afford the land.
Hastur: “…”
If Hastur were human, his pupils would be quaking right now: How could this be?? Even venting frustrations in a game meant working first to earn the cash!
In that moment, even a monster wage slave like him—one who didn’t technically need to clock in—fell into the same hopeless spiral that plagued human corporate drones:
Was there no way to enjoy himself fully without working or spending a dime?
“Hah—”
A choking gasp suddenly came from behind him.
An unfamiliar stench mingled with a familiar sickly sweetness exploded without warning, filling the entire room in the blink of an eye.
Hastur spun around to see the boy—who had been curled up on the bed, silent ever since receiving the assurance—vomiting up a mouthful of black blood. He writhed in agony as if drowning.
He clawed at his neck, as though desperate to rip open his throat and pluck out some obstruction from his windpipe. His murky, dim eyes brimmed with tears, hormones surging wildly.
He said nothing, but to Hastur, it was an unmistakable cry for help: his thrashing body, his pleading gaze, the intensifying hormonal reek all screamed the same desperate plea:
Save me!!! I want to live!!!
The next second, those limbs—raised high in a frantic bid for life—dropped like severed puppet strings, thudding dully onto the bed.
A hand still smeared with chunks of his vomited, rotten lung dangled off the bed’s edge. Pale flesh intertwined with crimson gore, a stark emblem of death.
Mournful saxophone notes drifted once more from that desolate white wasteland, and the subtitles reappeared:
【Prologue: Era of Inevitable Fall】
Everything seemed unchanged. Only this time, what had fallen wasn’t an orphan’s body—it was a life.
Anyone else would have hurled their headset in rage by the second bad end, cursing the “shitty designers who aren’t human” and the “forced character handouts.”
But for Hastur, who lacked any innate grasp of human emotions—
Of course! Just start a new game. That was like getting a fresh plot of land for free, wasn’t it?
The inherent assets might be tricky to save, but since he’d made a promise, he wouldn’t break it.
With practiced ease, Hastur backed out to the menu and selected New Game.
This time, however, he hesitated during the newbie tutorial and chose not to skip it.
Promise.
To Hastur, a promise carried the binding weight of a legal contract.
He didn’t mind restarting multiple times just for building.
But since he’d promised to keep the inherent assets alive, this run wouldn’t allow death to rear its head again.
The familiar scene unfolded before him.
The newbie tutorial froze time in place, highlighting lines that traced out documents on the desk Hastur had never bothered with before:
【Gather as much intel as you can! Every clue to making money, expanding, or advancing the plot might be hidden in the smallest details~】
Hastur: “…”
He double-checked that he’d booted up a management sim, not some escape room puzzle game. Driven by his sense of duty, he still picked up the circled note on top of the files.
The yellowed scrap bore a string of numbers and a name in spindly, slanted script:
【0124-5651-5563
Dr. Raymond】
Time resumed the instant he set the note down.
Hastur swiftly opened the building interface and locked the gabby Nissen in the Little Black Room.
He sold off every door and window in the orphanage—preventing any more fatal plunges for the inherent assets—while pocketing a tidy sum for construction funds.
Restraining his urge to nest, he didn’t spend it on expanding the orphanage. Instead, he scooped up the peeling old-fashioned phone from the desk edge and dialed the number from the note.
“Ring ring…”
The retro bell tone rang out, muffled and warped with a damp, decaying undertone.
It connected quickly, and a mild, puzzled voice answered:
“H.J.? Calling at this hour? Something come up—can’t bring the kid to the clinic today?”
Hastur headed upstairs as he replied, installing a door on the inherent assets’ dorm for him to enter and retrieve the child:
“No. I forgot the clinic’s address.”
The doctor sighed.
“…Delirium District, east of where you live in Phoenix District. Find a strip club called Buck’s Bubblegum Club—there’s an underground passage just to the left that leads right to my clinic.”
Ever patient, the doctor finished explaining, then added hurriedly: “I’d advise hurrying—actually, no, let me just call you a cab. That kid’s in bad shape, like a grenade with the pin pulled. No telling when the tumors inside him might blow.”
~~~
Tumors.
So in the previous save, the stench that erupted before the boy died—was that the smell of tumors and rotten lungs coming up together?
The cab arrived with uncanny speed. Hastur was still filing away memories of tumor scents when the horn blared outside the window.
Twin high beams swept across the sill, and a sleek hovercar pulled up smoothly beside it.
The streamlined light strips around the side door flashed twice, and the door slid upward, perfectly aligning the windowsill as a boarding step.
Hastur hurried out with the boy—who looked terrified but grew unusually cooperative upon hearing they were headed to the clinic—without needing a single extra word of explanation.
It reminded him irresistibly of past work gigs: plenty of “veteran” employees in their forties or fifties weren’t half as quick on the uptake as this kid…
He hoped those shameless old-timers would feel some shame.
With a low whine like muffled sobbing, the hovercar ascended swiftly.
The inherent assets probably rarely ventured out; a faint flush crept into his sickly pale face as his eyes sparkled, taking in every detail of the vehicle.
Hastur had little interest in a mid-range cab like this. After all, in his real job, he’d ridden countless far fancier models—some even equipped with tri-phase warheads, nukes packing more punch than standard hydrogen bombs.
The districts sprawling below drew his eye more than the car. “That whole dark patch down there—is that all Phoenix District?”
He realized his mistake the moment the words left his mouth.
The inherent assets lit up at a mid-range cab—how could he know the answer?
Fortunately, the cab’s smart voice assistant chimed in: “Yes, passenger sir.”
“Phoenix District is an rundown, impoverished, chaotic neighborhood.”
“Most small-time gangs with limited muscle set up shop there.”
“Locals rarely go out at night to avoid getting caught in gang shootouts.”
“Leaving lights on isn’t wise either—”
“Gangbangers at this hour are usually drunk or high as kites, liable to smash windows on a whim or break in for some smash-and-grab fun.”
Hastur appreciated Phoenix District’s simple folkways. “And that sea of neon to the east?”
“I assume you’re asking about our destination, Delirium District?”
The voice assistant continued:
“It’s home to the biggest Red Light District, plus the Black Market with the fullest stock.”
“Please remind any underage passengers aboard not to stare—might catch sight of giant holographic models flirting with passersby.”
Hastur got it: Delirium District equaled 18+ zone.
The cab descended into Delirium District soon enough, plunging them into the neon sea’s embrace.
Gaudy signs flowed past the windows like rivers of color.
Life-sized or oversized holographic models swayed their bodies in slow, seductive rhythms, casting come-hither glances or blowing sultry kisses at every pedestrian and vehicle that passed.
Hookah and weed smoke curled from the holograms’ lips and the noses of strolling crowds.
Harsh and mellow scents wove together into a hypnotic fog bank—a delirious haze tempting the world to indulge, sink into oblivion, and forget itself and tomorrow.
No one in the cab was in the mood to gawk, though.
The boy obediently squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears, more anxious about the coming treatment than the projections outside.
Hastur, mindful of when the inherent assets had crashed last time, led the boy swiftly out of the hovercar the moment it pulled into a narrow, crowded alley and stopped before a downward passage.
Guiding the still-covered boy down the stairs, he only remembered one thing at the door: “What’s your name?”
The impact of his voice was clear as day—the boy’s gaunt frame shuddered visibly:
“I don’t have a name, Dean. My parents never registered my birth or gave me one. The other kids my age at the orphanage used to call me ‘Valetudinarian,’ which means ‘sick ghost.'”
“…” Hastur couldn’t even decide which was worse: “Inherent Assets” or “sick ghost.”
Fortunately, the doctor soon hurried out from the simply furnished but impeccably clean little clinic and ushered the child inside.
When Hastur tried to drift in after them into the consultation room, the doctor stopped him at the door with a look of surprise and confusion.
“What are you coming in for? Want surgery too? Just sit outside and wait a bit, my friend. Don’t worry—my skills are always top-notch.”
Clang—
The deep mint-green metal door boomed shut.
Hastur hovered in front of the tightly closed door for a few seconds. Moments later, a question mark slowly popped up above the egg yolk jellyfish’s head.
…?
Was this game so realistic that it made players wait around like in real life for half an hour?
So why did humans rave about it? Did they enjoy standing in front of doors, twiddling their thumbs?
—Or maybe this half hour was meant for players to check out the Red Light District outside the clinic?
He uncertainly reopened the Newbie Tutorial. Sure enough, a glowing route line pointed straight outside into the hallway:
【Quest: Paths Converge (In Progress)
The good doctor is performing surgery on your orphan. Return after waiting 30 minutes.
Experience the thrills of Delirium District (Optional)】
Hastur stared at the word “thrills” for a few seconds and felt a pang of racial discrimination.
After all, there clearly weren’t any of his kind in this market, and pairing him up with humans for thrills was like trying to breed a giant squid with a bunny rabbit. It wasn’t exactly apples to oranges—it was just plain freakish.
He ignored the optional task without a second thought and focused intently on listening for sounds from the surgery room.
The clamor from the pachinko parlor next door inevitably filtered into his awareness:
“Hit! Hit!! Oh…”
“How much have you lost tonight, John? Keep this up, and how are you gonna pay back what you owe the Nirvana Gang?”
“What else can I do but gamble? With this cash, what kind of hustle could I even start in Phoenix District?”
“Whatever you do, be careful. Pay off that debt quick, before the Nirvana Gang drags you off and turns you into ‘merchandise’ at the clinic next door.”
“…” Hastur’s drifting robe hem suddenly went still.
